Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Hi lovelies!
It gives me great pleasure today to host John Geers and his new book, “Emerge
Beyond Circles”! For other stops on his
Goddess Fish Promotions Book Tour, please click on the banner above or any of
the images in this post.

Be sure to make
it to the end of this post to enter to win a $25 Amazon GC, a signed copy of
the book, and an adorable stuffed tiger (US only)!! Also, come back daily to interact with John
and to increase your chances of winning!

Thanks for
stopping by! Wishing you lots of luck in
this fabulous giveaway!

Emerge Beyond
Circles

by John Geers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GENRE: Fantasy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BLURB:

Two couples
from Madison, with entwined destinies, both seeking love, are connected by a
single element: the ancient Siberian witch, Thuban-Pol. Her magic will either
be their savior or their ruin.

Thuban-Pol is
the latest in a lineage of Siberian witches. Their eternal aim is to guide
humanity to true love. Their guiding tenet, “For love to bloom, these three
endure: sacrifice, perseverance and suffering. But the greatest of these is
suffering.”

Since the dawn
of humanity, they have summoned countless couples, inflicting suffering with
the intention to grow true love. They have never succeeded…but now they have
their best opportunity in two couples from Wisconsin.

If they
succeed, love will finally bloom for all of humanity, if the suffering
inflicted on these couples doesn't kill them first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

EXCERPT
ONE:

Slivered
gray wood covered the outside. Macabre scenes carved like tattoos stretched
from ground to gutter and marched around each corner in a black parade.

Clint
stepped close to the dark images and put a finger to one. "It's soft and
squishy, like driveway tar in summer, but it doesn't stick to my skin.
Weird." His finger went to his nose, and he said, "Interesting. Hey,
sniff this stuff."

Lucy
pushed her nose forward and sniffed the carving. "Yum, smells like…"
she let the scent tumble around her brain, "like peppermint and something
else I can't place, but definitely peppermint."

"Check
out these carvings of animals," he said.

Real
and imagined creatures prowled midst the gray slivers. Indigenous animals were
well represented; the snowy owl, Arctic fox, caribou and ermine. Along with
these were animals too strange to be from this age. Some warned. Others offered
a wry smile of welcome. A serpent barred vicious fangs stained crimson,
dripping pregnant bulbs of creamy poison. A grizzly bear smothered the head of
a besieged she-wolf with one massive paw while tonguing the cheek of its pup.
Wild caribou ran in stampede along the edge of a deep ravine, flirting with the
abyss.

Woven
among the animals were humans. Black eyes. Black bodies. Black forms. Black
illuminated. A child held the face of its mother. A man raised a silver sword
over the broken body of his slain foe. A son leaped into the arms of his
father, reminiscent of the Prodigal Son, but on this wall, soaked in black, the
anguish and joy were fresh. Sex was here too. Bodies engaged in all variety of
forbidden acts, twisted and beautiful.

As
the black parade marched on, frozen poses of pain pinched Lucy, forcing her
tight against his chest once more.

A
man groped the ground with orange coals where eyes once took in the world. A
woman with a flapping tongue, split like the Serpent, hissed a song to the full
blood moon. A young man pled for mercy, torn fingers lost in the gnashing teeth
of his lover. A man pounded the ice above his head. A child wailed in the jaws
of a terrible beast, eyes begging for a hero, a call for rescue swallowed by
winter. A family huddled tight, defying flames that, in real life, would be
their end. A woman slumped with blood and afterbirth at her feet, her ashen
eyes stone, silence of mother and child scattered across eternity. A wrinkled
face echoed hope, sealed behind tortured lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GUEST
POST:

Exclusive Excerpt from Emerge Beyond Circles by John
Geers:

Once
past the sign, he stepped on State Street to merge with the sea of football
fans. The Farmers Market on the Capitol Square was only moments from Johnson
and in full bloom now.

Predawn
preparations, the glimpse behind the veil, felt like weeks ago, part of another
dimension altogether. Premarket ghosts blown out over Lake Mendota by a gust of
football buzz, mummers, art vendors and gawkers.

Diversity
and doing defined the market.

Life.

Being
on the square during the market was intoxicating.

This
day allowed but a brief visit to the Mifflin Street section.

Of
all the vendors, one snagged his attention, set back from the others by several
yards and hemmed in by its neighbors. The location poor, even hidden, and the
female attendant quite apathetic. Approaching the table required maneuvering
through the throngs gathered around the adjacent Wisconsin Honey stand and
Hmong vegetable tent. Marc wiggled and excused his way to the curious stand and
stood before it. The selection she offered was limited, but magnificent. Housed
in three chipped and chaffed five-gallon buckets, set atop a worn plywood
table, were the most breathtaking flowers he had ever seen. Each flower
featured brilliant colors, fabulous gemlike facets and leaves of the most
distinct design, so ornate they demanded awe and inspection. Ancient curiosity
stirred and propelled him forward until he was inches from them.

Why
he was there remained hazy until a tender breeze launched from the iced waters
of Lake Mendota drifted up State Street, meandered amidst the crowd, made a
final push, pried heavenly aromas off velvet petals, and delivered them to his
nose.

“Excuse
me,” he coughed out much quieter than intended.

“Excuse
me.” Louder but still covered by the racket of the crowd.

“Excuse
me!”

The
old woman behind the plywood, seated in a crooked wooden chair, roused in
response, revealing gray hair tucked beneath a wool cap with wide flaps tied
under a prickly chin. Her level of disinterest in peddling her wares was
betrayed by her filthy clothes, torn snow pants, stringy scarf, mud-caked boots
and gloves that left more skin exposed than protected.

“Excuse
me, can you tell me what sort of flowers these are?” he asked, pointing to the
middle bucket.

“Yellow,”
she said through pallid lips.

“Yellow,
yes, but the name, I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Don’t
know,” she said, shifting her weight extracted a severe crack from her chair.
“If you like em’, buy em’, only twelve bucks a dozen. Fair price. Bundle em’
for ya?” She strained to rise, no easy task.

“Actually,
these here,” he motioned toward the bucket to the right of the yellow, “what
kind are these?”

An
icy wind slurred his question and he asked again.

“Blue,”
she answered.

“Alright,
how much for the blue ones?” he asked after being bumped from behind by other
shoppers for the umpteenth time.

“You
want the blue? Only ten bucks a dozen. Bundle em’?” She grabbed a bag designed
to hold a bouquet of flowers.

“Yeah,
I guess so, bundle em’ my good woman, Bruce will enjoy their perfume. It will
remind him of summer.” He smiled under frozen breath and dug cash from his
parka. “I only got a twenty, can you make change?”

“Of
course, good merchants make change,” she said, reaching for a beaten abacus.

“Yes,
I’m sure you’re a good merchant.” He corrected his misstep and handed over the
money. “Do you come to the market much?”

“Not
much,” came the vacant reply while she arranged the three buckets. “Enough.
People need flowers. No?” She plucked a bouquet from the bucket on the right
and presented them to Marc. “These?”

“Those
will do just fine,” he replied during a scan of the market.

“Not
yellow? Blue?”

“The
blue ones, yes the blue ones.”

“Blue
then.” And she continued the process.

Bundling
the blue flowers proved to be a slow process. He quickly saw why her gloves
were shredded. Hidden under oaken leaves, running up the stems were needle-like
thorns at least three inches in length. These required skill in handling. Her
tattered gloves granted fleeting glimpses of scarred hands. Shreds of cloth
concealed the bulk of each hand while their motion hid the remainder. Still
though, he picked up snaps of flesh when they slowed to adjust her scarf or
wipe a drippy nose. Without warning, those snaps congealed in his mind and
became whole. Like a black rampaging wave, the image staged a coupe on his
senses, seized them by the throat, pitching his soul to and fro. The wave
stifled the whir of the market. A drone flooded his skull, extinguished thought,
eyes fixed, unblinking. Blood battered his eardrums, thrumming in time with
racing heartbeats. Nausea twisted his gut.

The
hands within those gloves, the ones working the flowers, the skin, the
blotches, tendons, each bony knuckle, every stray hair…an exact replica of the
Siberian witch, Thuban-Pol.

A
clot lodged in his arteries, the chill numbed his synapses, the genesis of the
black wave there, under tattered gloves, the realization crystallized. Seeing
these hands was seeing the hands of his true love at the distant point of
Reunion.

Stabbing
pain struck his fingers like lightning, cracked him from the trance.

Slammed
into his hand by the old woman, his bouquet of thorny stemmed blue flowers.
Blood bulbs blossomed on three fingertips where the spikes ripped a furrow in
his skin and fell, splashing to the concrete.

Shaken,
he turned for home and resumed a brisk walk down Mifflin, this time determined,
stopping for nothing.

“Sir!
Your change!” Came a call from the other side of the buckets.

“Keep
it,” he said with crimson fingers between chapped lips, too garbled for anyone
to hear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR
BIO:

John Geers drew inspiration to begin his debut
novel from a dream he experienced.

Hours spent in
the caffeinated air of his favorite coffeehouse proved to be the perfect place
to complete Emerge Beyond Circles.

John is a
middle school literacy educator, where he inspires and is inspired by the
writers of tomorrow. He is the founder and facilitator of his school’s Creative
Writing Club. He is also a columnist for the online magazine Elephant Journal.

He loves a good
story, being on the water, and witty puns. He can be found hiking the
wilderness, biking big hills, sipping dark coffee, and looking for a chair in
the mall.

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